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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592778">have you no idea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoflobster/pseuds/pantsoflobster'>pantsoflobster</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Set in S4, archivist's freaky dream thing, brief dream appearance of Martin's mother, second half set right after 159, the yearning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoflobster/pseuds/pantsoflobster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon doesn't mean to keep appearing in Martin's dreams. But he’s avoiding him, he won’t talk to him, and Jon can’t keep him off his mind.</p><p> <br/>---<br/> </p><p>Another S4 yearning story for the pile.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>331</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>have you no idea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I truly didn’t think I would ever write a s4 yearning fic but<br/>everyone has that moment where “do i wanna know” by the arctic monkeys clicks into place for every set of characters they’re attached to, right<br/>that happened to me today </p><p>I started this almost exactly 12 hours ago and here it is, so take that how you will</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Basira said Martin had been to the hospital more than anyone during the months Jon was there. He didn’t understand why that information made him want to cry. He didn’t cry, of course. He wasn’t sure that was something he really did anymore, whether for supernatural reasons or not. </p><p>Martin was markedly absent when Jon came back to the Archives. He knew he’d taken on a new position with Peter Lukas, but he didn’t expect that meant he’d be avoiding the Archives completely. Jon found himself thinking about it whenever his mind wandered off, wondering if Martin preferred his new work or, if as treacherous as he was, perhaps Peter Lukas was a nicer boss than himself. It probably wasn’t a difficult bar to meet. </p><p>It slowly came together until he collided with it like running full force into a sign post.</p><p>He’d caught Martin in the hallway trying to avoid him and when they talked, he’d been so odd and distant, eager to get as far away from Jon as he could. That had never been like Martin. Jon always used to have to ask him if there was anywhere else he needed to be when he’d hang around a bit too long after bringing him tea. </p><p>He returned to his office, sinking into his desk chair and staring at the closed door. He played the encounter over and over in his mind. Was he being controlled? Or had Jon done something, something within his control, that hurt Martin to the point of chasing him away? How could he fix it? Why did he care so much? </p><p>Before he understood, he realized his mind had taken creative liberties with the memory of their exchange and plotted an alternative ending without his permission. He imagined himself bolting down the hall, grabbing Martin by the arms and kissing him--was that right? Oh god, he wanted that. He wanted that? Was that new? </p><p>How long had he been staring at the bloody tape recorder, gripping a cassette in his mangled hand? He’d just made a cup of tea before he talked to Martin. He reached toward it to find the mug ice cold. </p><p>“Fuck,” he muttered. </p><p>Jon had been sleeping on that dreadful cot in the Archives, unable to muster a desire just yet to find a new flat. Most nights he slept in fits, leaping from nightmare to nightmare and lying awake in between for hours at a time. Sometimes, he stared into the dark until his eyes adjusted and he could see the outlines of shelves and just barely read labels on files. Sometimes, he kept his eyes squeezed shut until he drifted off again, unwilling to open them to whatever lay beyond. </p><p>He dreamt that night, but as always, it wasn’t his. </p><p>He stood in a flat plagued by a frigid draft, waves of cold wafting off a thick fog that hung over the ground, growing and curling around him, drawing him to the next room. Someone was in the chair there, a painfully familiar shape. It only took another step to know it was undeniably Martin. </p><p>It looked like the kind of armchair that wasn’t meant for anyone to actually sit in and enjoy themselves while there, but it must have belonged to someone’s grandmother, so it stuck around. Martin stared hard at the ground, hands folded together and hung between his knees. In front of the chair and all around it were boxes, as if someone was moving out or had just moved in. One was full to the brim with cassette tapes thrown carelessly on top of each other. Another seemed to be filled with the paraphernalia from Tim’s desk, recognizable by the tacky Shakespeare snowglobe Sasha had gotten him as some joke that Jon was never privy to. Another box held what looked like a heap of Jon’s own personal effects, clothes and odd things from his desk, and an eerily dormant tape recorder. </p><p>Finally, Martin noticed him and looked up. As soon as they saw each other, Martin slowly diverted his gaze, back down at a different patch of floor. Jon called out to him, but he said nothing. </p><p>When it became clear the only option he had was to stand and watch, Jon willed himself awake. It wasn’t like other dreams, usually filled with so much abject horror he woke to the sensation of crawling on his skin or heaving air into his lungs to replace black smoke. No, it had just been quiet there. It was an insidious sort of quiet, but of course, Martin would be the one to have peaceful nightmares. </p><p>It happened three more times within the week. Each time, he’d find Martin in a fog-choked setting standing vigil with some vestige of those he’d lost. Martin would lock eyes with him and immediately look away, almost like he’d made a conscious choice to ignore him. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he had. </p><p>The fourth time, Jon didn't even realize it was Martin’s dream at first. He seemed to be in a hospital hallway, drawn to a room with fog billowing out the open door. His feet dragged him there on autopilot, and as he turned into the room he saw Martin slumped in a hard metal chair, his back to the door, sitting beside a hospital bed. He half expected to see his own body there, but it was instead an older woman, her face and posture angled away.</p><p>“I like it better when you call,” she said. “It’s too much when you come here and just stare at me like that.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Martin said. </p><p>“You haven’t even gone to see my grave again since the burial.” </p><p>“I’ve been busy.”</p><p>“That’s what you always say. I don’t know what you could be so busy with lets you come here and stare at me, but you can’t just go leave flowers at my grave once in a while.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Martin said. </p><p>Jon dared to take a step through the door into the room and immediately Martin turned to look over his shoulder, his expressionless face changing none when he saw him. This time, though, he didn’t avert his eyes right away. </p><p>“Leave me alone,” Martin said, a bitter warning. Before Jon could respond, he woke with a small gasp. Without thinking, he picked up his phone. </p><p>It rang and rang until it went to voicemail, as Jon thought it would. He’d probably fallen back to sleep already, or at least was trying to. A pleasant, little impression of Martin’s voice recited his name and number, inviting him to leave a message and promising a call back. He must have recorded it years ago, perhaps even before he was assigned to the Archives. It was almost enough just to hear his voice. It was also entirely dissatisfying. </p><p>Jon sighed and set his phone aside, settling for staring at the tiled ceiling until he drifted off, or didn’t. </p><p>A moment later, his phone lit up again with a buzz and Jon grabbed it immediately. </p><p>“Martin?” </p><p>“What, Jon?”</p><p>He sounded as irritated as he expected, and something about it made Jon smile. </p><p>“I’m sorry if I woke you.”</p><p>“You know you didn’t.” </p><p>They sat in tense silence for a moment. “Why did you call back?” Jon asked, genuinely curious. </p><p>“Stop showing up,” Martin said. It wasn’t an answer. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“In my dreams. I know when you’re there and I want you to stop, Jon.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, pleading. “It’s--I don’t mean to, I don’t get to choose. It just happens. I think it’s because I’m--it happens when I’m thinking about you.”</p><p>“Well, stop that too.”</p><p>“Stop--what?”</p><p>“Stop thinking about me,” Martin spat out. “If it means you stop bursting into my nightmares.” </p><p>Another silence fell. </p><p>“You understand what it means, right?” Jon asked. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That I end up in your nightmares so much.”</p><p>“What are you talking about? Of course, I know what it means.” </p><p>Jon sighed miserably. His own question was double-edged, he knew that much. But one edge couldn’t be broached, not right now. Maybe not ever. He’d missed his chance for that a long time ago. </p><p>“It means you’re afraid of it, Martin. You’re afraid of the Lonely, of <em> being </em> lonely, but you’re--”</p><p>“Jon, shut up,” he warned firmly. </p><p>“It means whatever it is you’re diving headfirst into, you know deep down it could destroy you and you <em> are </em> afraid of that, but you don’t have to--”</p><p>“God, just <em> shut up,</em> Jon!” Martin growled. “This is--calling me like this in the middle of the night and throwing everything in my face, it’s--it’s cruel.”</p><p>His face contorted as if he’d been stabbed. “I’m not trying to be cruel, Martin, I’m trying to--” Jon’s mouth went dry, his throat tightening around the words he wanted to say. <em> To tell you I love you, I love you, Martin. Why can’t I just tell you? </em> He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. <em> That </em> would be cruel, serving Martin his own pain on a platter that he had nowhere to put, something he’d wanted a year ago that Jon was too stupid to give. </p><p>“I’m trying to save you.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I’m trying to--” Martin cut himself short, and that same voice in Jon’s head screaming about love latched onto it. He thought--he hoped--maybe he was about to say he was trying to save him, too. “Goodnight, Jon.” </p><p>“Martin, please--”</p><p>“Goodnight.”</p><p>“Martin, wait, please. Don’t hang up.”</p><p>“Why?” he said wildly. </p><p>There was no good reason. He just didn’t want to let him go. “I--I don’t know. Nevermind, just… Please take care of yourself.”</p><p>“You’re one to talk.” The line went dead.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Jon had never seen Martin’s flat, not this one or the one before that he’d eagerly moved out of not too long after his two weeks of captivity. But seeing Martin’s flat for the first time was hardly the strangest thing to happen today. The significance barely fazed him as they approached the door.</p><p>“Jon, um--my hand--”</p><p>“Oh,” he said, immediately releasing his grip. He realized just how tightly he’d been holding Martin’s hand since he walked them out of the Lonely. At some point, he’d rationalized that the tighter he gripped, the less likely it was he could feel how badly Jon’s hand was shaking.</p><p>Martin actually gave him a small smile as he dug in his pocket for his key and let them in. It occurred to him that Martin might not want him trailing behind like a lost puppy while he packed, so Jon took a seat on the sofa as he made for his bedroom. Before he disappeared, he glanced back. </p><p>“You can come with me, you don’t have to sit out there,” Martin said.</p><p>“Oh, do--do you want me to--”</p><p>“Yeah, sort of,” he said, now a bit sheepish. “Don’t, ah… I don’t really want to be alone right now.”  </p><p>Jon shot up from the couch. “Of course, I--of course.” </p><p>He followed after him, perhaps a bit too eagerly, and entered Martin’s bedroom. It was perfectly cozy by Jon’s standards, though he got the idea anyone else might think it a bit meager. He stood by the door while Martin looked around, searching for where to start. His eyes landed on Jon again. </p><p>“You can sit on the bed, it’s fine,” he said, like it was obvious.</p><p>Of course, it was fine. That <em> felt </em>so obvious. Why did Jon need an explicit invitation over every little threshold like some weird vampire? What was he so afraid of breaking? There was nothing left to break. He sat at the foot of the mattress and took a deep breath, staring at the floor to keep from staring at Martin. </p><p>“I won’t be long,” he said, shuffling things about under the bed. “God, I don’t even know if I have a suitcase anymore. Think I got rid of it and told myself I’d get a new one if I needed it.” He gave an awkward laugh. “Might have to use this. Think the zipper’s broken, though.” He pulled out a dingy duffel bag and tossed it onto the bed. </p><p>“Can’t be worse than my beat up backpack and unceremonious pile of clothes,” Jon said, and Martin laughed again, still sounding a bit smaller than normal. On their mad dash from the Institute, they’d stopped in the room Jon had been hunkering down in and grabbed what little he had to grab. He couldn’t fit many articles of clothing in his backpack and ended up throwing some over one arm, leaving the other free to keep a hold on Martin’s hand. They deposited Jon’s things in Martin’s car where it was parked on the street when they arrived at his flat.</p><p>As soon as Martin turned away to pull things from his closet, Jon’s eyes were magnetized to his back, if only to make sure he didn’t all of a sudden slip away. After the day he’d had, it felt like a dream to be there. Martin was there and they were about to run away together, just like he’d offered once before, fortunately with their eyesight intact. He’d been so averse to it then… Did Martin really want to do this? Was he just going along with it because Jon said so, or even worse, out of a sense of debt for saving his life? </p><p>Damn it, he had to offer, had to let him know it was okay to go their separate ways if that’s what he wanted. It was only right.</p><p>Tears gathered in Jon’s eyes and he almost gasped at the sensation. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried that wasn’t a result of physical pain. He covered as much of his face with his hands as he could manage and willed the tears to cease.</p><p>“It’ll probably be colder--Jon?”</p><p>He viciously swiped at his eyes and looked up at Martin, who had turned back from his closet with an armful of clothes. </p><p>“Jon…” he said again, crossing to the bed to lay the clothes down and sit beside him. </p><p>“I really didn’t think you would come with me. Out of the Lonely,” Jon choked, immediately infuriated at the pathetic sound of his voice. He buried his face in his hands again. “God, I’m sorry. We don’t have time for this.” </p><p>“Hey,” Martin said, irrationally sympathetic. “It’s alright, Jon.”</p><p>“No, I--you don’t have to do this with me, Martin. You don’t have to let me drag you to hell.” </p><p>Of all things, Martin looked confused. “I’m pretty sure it’s about to become hell here if we stay,” he said. “I don’t know if we have a choice.” </p><p>Jon let out a watery, exasperated sigh. “But it--it doesn’t have to be a ‘we.’ You could go anywhere, you don’t have to be stuck with me.”</p><p>“What--Jon, if <em> you </em> don’t want to be stuck with <em> me,</em> then--”</p><p>“God, no, Martin,” he all but shouted. “I want you to come with me more than anything in the world, but I--I know you don’t feel the same as you did. I <em> know </em> a lot has changed, and it’s my fault, and the last thing I want is you throwing away more of your life for me.”</p><p>Martin looked at him like he was speaking in tongues, shaking his head in pained confusion. “Jon, what do you mean? About the way I feel.” </p><p>“I know you used to--I’ve become aware that you used to care for me a great deal, but I think I figured it out a bit too late,” he said with a sad laugh.</p><p>“<em>Used </em> to?”</p><p>Jon looked at him in distress. He obviously wasn’t explaining himself well. “Y--look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure you still care about me, but not like--not the same way. And that’s understandable.”</p><p>“Jon, you’re going to have to be more specific. I don’t--” </p><p>“Please don’t make me say it, Martin, it--it hurts,” he begged. “It’s not your fault, but it hurts.” </p><p>He could feel Martin staring at him, but Jon could do nothing but stare at the floor and wait. Suddenly, Martin said, “Do you think I don’t love you?”</p><p>He flinched at the word. “Isn’t that what you said?” </p><p>“<em>When</em>?” Martin cried.</p><p>“Back there, when I found you.”</p><p>“I did?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Another pause seemed to stretch on a full minute. “I’m sorry.” </p><p>“It’s alright,” Jon whispered, tacking on a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t blame you. I’m sorry I was late.” </p><p>“You’re not.”</p><p>Jon whipped his head toward him, suddenly indignant. “I <em> am </em> sorry--”</p><p>“You’re not late.” </p><p>All words were ripped from Jon’s mouth besides a pathetic, “What?”</p><p>“God, no,” Martin said, then showing a small, fond smile. “Maybe a little late, but not too late.” </p><p>Jon huffed what felt like a laugh, but wasn’t at all. “What do you mean?”</p><p>Martin’s hand inched just barely in his direction.</p><p>“Can I… take your hand again?” </p><p>Without a word, Jon offered his hand and his shoulders slumped at Martin’s touch, entirely different from the frantic, crushing clasp from earlier. He cradled it gently, brushing his thumb over the ridges of scar tissue on the back of his hand and Jon tightened his grip just slightly, looking up to meet far too patient eyes.</p><p>“Thank you for coming after me,” Martin said. </p><p>“I didn’t want to do this without you,” he replied, almost a whisper.</p><p>“I love you, Jon. I still do.”</p><p>His eyes widened and his hand went slack. “What?” </p><p>“Of course, I do,” Martin said, with a shake of his head. “Whatever I said back there, that wasn’t--that wasn’t real. It was a comfortable lie, or--or a… a near-truth twisted into something hurtful. To push you away. The Lonely is big on those.” </p><p>“Oh,” Jon breathed. </p><p>He reached towards Martin’s cheek with his free hand, stopping just before he touched him. “Can I--” He didn’t spare a second before leaning into Jon’s palm and he felt a smile warm his own face. “Martin,” he said, as reverent as a prayer.  </p><p>Jon began gently tugging Martin’s face closer to his. “Can I?” he asked again, hoping his intentions were clear. Martin nodded, and Jon closed the gap between them.</p><p>The first touch of their lips was barely a touch, a chaste, simple press of skin as if just to prove it could be done. It wasn’t enough and Jon pulled him closer by the hand still framing his cheek, bringing his other hand up to aid. Their lips slid together in earnest and Jon sighed into it, cherishing the feeling of Martin’s mouth turning upwards against his own. </p><p>Jon had never seen something so beautiful as the smile on Martin’s face when they pulled apart. </p><p>“I love you, Martin,” he said, like a revelation. It wasn’t, but it was the first time he’d said it out loud. </p><p>Martin blinked at him, his smile falling just a bit. “Really?” </p><p>“Is it still such a surprise?” Jon laughed. </p><p>He shook his head. “No, no, I just--you know, it’s one of those things I’ve wanted for… so long, and I’m not used to--to actually getting things like that.” </p><p>Jon caressed his cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Hey, shut up,” Martin said, with a small, crooked grin. “If you’d asked me how today ended, I would have never dreamed it would be like this.” </p><p>“Well, it’s not over yet,” Jon said, looking at the empty duffel bag and discarded pile of clothes. </p><p>Martin didn’t even spare a glance. “Can I kiss you again?” </p><p>“You don’t have to ask.”</p><p>This time, Martin crashed into him and for a moment it was messy and disorienting, teeth colliding and glasses getting knocked askew. He wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck and then firm hands found Jon’s waist, the new point of contact sparking something in him that inspired him to push forward and lay Martin back against his bed. He threw his leg astride Martin’s hips and leaned down into the kiss, relishing this new angle that allowed him to pour all of himself into proving his affection without messy, infuriating words. A hungry moan escaped from Martin’s throat into Jon’s mouth and he let out a relieved sigh to match.</p><p>Something needled at the back of Jon’s mind and he regretfully pulled back, staring down at Martin’s stunned, intoxicated expression which he was sure his own mirrored. They caught their breath for a moment, and Jon stroked a lock of hair off Martin’s forehead. </p><p>“We don’t actually have time for this,” he said between pants.</p><p>“You started it.” </p><p>“And I intend to finish it, but perhaps once we’re out of London.” </p><p>“Right,” Martin said, his eyes widening. “We’re on the run.”</p><p>“Not quite yet, but we really ought to be.” </p><p>“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay, okay. I’ve got to pack. But you’ve got to get off of me, first.”</p><p>Jon rolled off to let him up. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t apologize for that,” Martin said, shooting him a sideways glance as he carelessly threw his clothes into his duffel bag. </p><p>“Oh, I’m not,” Jon said with a smirk. </p><p>When he’d finished with the clothes he collected before, Martin straightened up and looked hopelessly around the room, gripping some of his wayward curls with one hand. “What am I doing? I don’t even know what else to--Christ, there’s a lot going on right now.” Jon’s chest felt like it might explode from the volume of affection it held watching Martin dash around, opening drawers just to shut them again. </p><p>When he left to grab necessities from the bathroom, Jon flopped back against the bed and stared at the ceiling, swallowing a delirious giggle. He felt like a ridiculous, smitten teenager, but he could barely grasp what had just unfolded in the last fifteen minutes much less the rest of the day. There was no time to get caught up on it. Perhaps they’d have time to unravel it all in Scotland. </p><p>Martin tore back into the room. “Do you think there’s going to be sheets? Should I bring--oh, fuck it. We should just go.”</p><p>Jon sat up and put out a tentative hand. “Are you sure you’re ready?” </p><p>“No, but I’m kind of on that, ‘Nothing matters and it’ll all be fine as long as we’re together’ high right now, so I’m thinking we should maybe just run with that.” </p><p>Jon laughed and rose to his feet, crossing to stand before him. “Alright.”</p><p>“Let’s go become renegades,” Martin said, heaving his bag onto a shoulder and sticking out his hand for Jon to take in his. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Can you believe i almost wrote the first half without the happy ending jesus christ i’d have lost my job as the queen of fluff </p><p> </p><p>I almost didn’t know how to write them without pet names, no “love”???? No “darling”???? unrealistic </p><p>truly don't know where this came from i am usually established relationship domestic fluff or bust anyway if you want some of that, go read my other fics lol</p></blockquote></div></div>
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